I'm reminded of how different a person I am--older, wiser, I suppose--from the person who began writing in here four years ago. (Has it really been that long?)

I think, at times, that I've outgrown the blog. I don't have those varied days of walking to classes or going out at nights...those long, solitary walks when my mind raced up hills and climbed the trees.

Nowadays, the writing I do is for work. My journalling is too private to leave paper and venture into cyber space.

What I do write online feels trite and only half real. I miss the ease with which words and pictures used to come to me. I miss the creative exercise like I miss running...it's a struggle to get back in the habit of it, but when I do, it feels clean and alive.

I don't even know what to write about these days. Do I say that I like the new shade of orange my roommates painted the living room? That I'm particularly pleased with the good deal I got on the mirror that will hang above the couch? That I'm getting things sorted out with my boyfriend? That I fell asleep knitting? That I wish my boyfriend lived near me so it'd be easier to know.

Who knows.

I think I'm afraid of being shallow, of being real, of being vulnerable. And I have been afraid of really feeling since...since I don't know how long. I think that if I could figure that out, I could solve my problem.

I could let myself feel again without explaining it away.